


Dealing with the Problem Student

by phipiohsum475



Series: TV Land [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cock Cages, Dom!Mycroft, Education Through Pyrotechnics, M/M, Mild BDSM, Orgasm Denial, Plugs, Riding Crops, Sibling Incest, TV Tropes, Teenlock, student/teacher romance, sub!Sherlock, writing lines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-21 16:51:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3699836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they’d originally begun this, Mycroft genuinely set out to teach Sherlock proper behavior and manners, but found that to control Sherlock, to discipline him, was gorgeously arousing for both he and his little brother. Sherlock may have been right. Perhaps they really were made for each other.</p><p> </p><p>  <b>Sherlock is 16, Mycroft is 23. </b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crime and Punishment

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Goda](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Goda/pseuds/Goda) for the beta!
> 
> Inspired by TVTropes.org's [Education Through Pyrotechnics](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/EducationThroughPyrotechnics), [Writing Lines](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/WritingLines), and [Teacher/Student Romance](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TeacherStudentRomance).

Sherlock sat sulking in the classroom. Dr. Wiggins was droning on in the front about the day’s experiment, but Sherlock tapped his foot and stared out the window. It was Chemistry, for Christ’s sake, how hard could it be? He stared out the window, watching the wind and the leaves and using that information to mentally calculate the wind speed, then the likelihood that the moron chasing his homework across the campus might actually catch the errant sheet of paper.

He was jolted back into awareness as chairs and tables squawked and scuffed around him, signaling the end of Dr. Wiggins’s useless droning and the shift of the students to the lab tables in the back of the classroom. Sherlock jumped up and headed to his table. Thankfully, his acerbic nature and cruel wit meant that his table was always left alone to him; and lately, also to John Watson, the new kid who seemed more amused by Sherlock than irritated. He wasn’t as dull as most of them and occasionally said something inane that bridged the sparks and neurons in Sherlock’s head, leading to clever and interesting new ideas. So he settled in his chair, greeted his lab partner with a simple “John,” and slid on his lab glasses.

Sherlock examined the chemicals, the Bunsen burner and the pipettes in front of him, and easily deduced the experiment Dr. Wiggins must have been explaining to the class. He sighed; so typical, so boring. “Ugh, this is tedious. Let’s do something more interesting.”

“Yeah, thanks Sherlock, but no. Last time you made things more interesting, I had to buy new shoes after they melted.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Just the soles. You make it sound like melted into your skin.”

“Either way, not made of money here.” John rolled his eyes and measured out the first of four chemicals they’d be using that day, “Beside, we’d still have to do the assignment; we’ve got to do the lab report.”

“Don’t be stupid. That’s like saying we need to use blocks to count two times four. It’s just a chemical equation, the results are obvious.”

“Not to me they’re not,” John stated, continuing on with his measuring as though he cared not one bit for Sherlock’s clever and clearly superior idea.

“Fine, you do the damn lab; I’m going to experiment properly,” Sherlock dismissed, and John rolled his eyes.

“Whatever, Sherlock.”

-o-

Dr. Wiggins ignored Sherlock as he pilfered the store cupboards. He’d gotten used to Sherlock’s experimentation, and as the Holmes family donated plenty to the school, he knew he could restock the supplies quite easily. Administration knew that much of the Holmes’ donations went to the repair and replacement caused by Sherlock’s “natural curiosity.”

Dr. Wiggins was just thrilled that the school had recently hired the brat’s elder brother. Mycroft Holmes taught British Government and Civics, and was the only one who seemed capable of keeping his brother in line. They’d even gotten the parents’ permission to send Sherlock off to his brother; apparently Mycroft was even a better disciplinarian at home than his mother or his father. Dr. Wiggins wasn’t surprised; the parents were sweet, kind, lovely folks, and he had no idea how they had spawned the atrocities that were the Holmes brothers. At least Mycroft was civil, if a bit overly concerned with social cues and expectations. He was a gentleman’s gentleman, diplomatic to the core. Even at his young age, (Dr. Wiggins knew he was in his early twenties, but it just seemed rude to clarify) he exuded age and wisdom. Often, the other teachers quietly gossiped that Mycroft Holmes had found some sort of youth formula, that he was really 62 in the body of twenty something.

Dr. Wiggins didn’t care; he was just glad that in his first year of having the younger Holmes, he had a back up policy. He’d been dreading seeing the boy in his class for the entire summer, but the arrival of the elder made the impossible child just another irritant.

Dr. Wiggins floated along the class, checking in amongst the students and pointing out where they were going wrong, how to correct their errors, and to answer the hypothetical questions of the more intelligent students, wanting to know what might happen if. Suddenly, from the Trouble Corner, as he dubbed it, Dr. Wiggins heard “John! No! Not Water!” a sudden hiss and the blast of a small explosion, the sound of which sent the whole class back a step. In an instant, the classroom burst into disbelieving chatter. 

“Jesus, fuck!” came the voice of John Watson. “Every time!”

Dr. Wiggins rushed over. There was no screaming nor cries of pain, but still he checked over Sherlock, John, and the two students that dared sit at the table next to them. Sherlock’s table was scorched, John’s paper burned and flaking at the scant remaining edges.

Sherlock scowled at John and snapped, “We’re fine, Dr. Wiggins.  _ Someone _ decided to splash water on my metallic sodium.”

John shouted, still angry about his paper, and the burnt holes flecked in his jumper, “What the  _ hell _ , Sherlock? Why did you have metallic sodium to begin with?!”

“This experiment was dull,” Sherlock shrugged, waving his hand towards the other students. “I wanted to actually learn something today.”

John rubbed his temples with his palm over his face, “Christ, Sherlock.”

“I’ll buy you a new jumper,” Sherlock dismissed.

“No, your brother will, when he hears about this,” John corrected, then looked to Dr. Wiggins. “Can I head to the toilets? I need to get this off.”

Dr. Wiggins dismissed him then looked to Sherlock. He pointed a stern finger and ordered, “My room, after school. Detention.”

Sherlock groaned, but conceded. “Fine.”

-o-

Sherlock arrived five minutes later than he should have, and Dr. Wiggins could hear John Watson shoving him through the door with a stern warning. Sherlock scuffled in, pack slung over one shoulder. He kicked the ground petulantly and made his way to a back corner desk. He flopped down, legs akimbo, and slouched. Dr Wiggins marveled at the flexibility of the young, then shook his head.

“Mr. Holmes, I am fairly tolerant of your curiosities and experimentation. But today’s explosion is unacceptable-“

Sherlock cut him off, “That’s wasn’t my fault, it’s John that poured water on it!  _ Idiot _ .”

“Did you tell him what chemicals you were using, and exactly what precautions to take?”

Sherlock’s silence answered for him.

“If you plan to experiment, then you must follow proper lab protocols. As consequence, I would like 200 lines of ‘I shall follow proper laboratory protocols.’ Once you’ve completed that, you may leave.”

Sherlock stared daggers at him until he sat behind his desk and began grading lab reports. Finally, aware that no attention was being paid to him, Sherlock finally dragged a pencil and paper out of his desk. The following forty five minutes were filled with silence aside from the scratching of Sherlock’s pencil and of his own pen. He finished the grading for four classes; it’s been easy since he’d developed a template cut out that he slide over each paper, highlighting the proper selection of multiple choice.

Finally, he heard Sherlock gather his papers, collect his bag, and stomp over to his desk. He slammed a few sheets of lined paper on his desk, and rushed out, before Dr. Wiggins could comment. Dr. Wiggins gathered the sheets, looked down and frowned.

Perhaps a visit to Mycroft Holmes was due.

-o-

The next morning, Dr. Wiggins marched Sherlock into Mycroft’s office at the end of the hall. “Mr. Holmes, I assigned your brother lines for blowing up my laboratory yesterday morning.  _ This _ -“ He thrust the papers from the day before in Mycroft’s face, “-is what he turned in. I may not be multilingual, but I recognized this word.” He stabbed at the paper, “And this one too.”

“I see,” Mycroft commented with complete neutrality. He looked to Sherlock. “Sit,” he ordered. He addressed Dr. Wiggins, “I will handle this. Expect Sherlock in your classroom tomorrow morning. I assure he will behave most excellently.”

Sherlock smirked in the corner, and while Mycroft ignored him, he didn’t miss the look. Dr. Wiggins stomped out of the office. Mycroft locked the door behind him, and without turning, spoke in a low dangerous tone.

“Strip.”

Mycroft saw Sherlock jump up, reflected in the glass of the landscape hanging beside the door. Sherlock bit his lip as he beamed, and dropped his trousers, pants, and shred the rest of his uniform with a sloppy haste. “Neatly, Sherlock,” Mycroft reprimanded, back still turned as he mentally prepared, keeping himself calm and controlled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but gathered the clothing off the floor, folded it, and placed it gently on the chair. Only then did Mycroft turn and drink in the sight. Sherlock’s pale body recently underwent transformation, losing the baby fat of youth. He’d grown lean and strong, if not a bit too thin, but the broad expanse of his shoulders and the sinewy length of his neck were delectable. As his baby brother matured into a man, Mycroft found himself letting his eyes linger longer and longer.

Sherlock, being who he was, noticed and found it pleasing. He began to seduce Mycroft at every given opportunity. Fingertips ghosting down his arms, or worse, up his thighs, dancing around Mycroft’s unruly arousal. He whispered innocent words with hot breath into Mycroft’s ears, tickling his neck with tentative scratches. As Mycroft refused to relent, Sherlock became more brazen, more creative, and found ways to torment Mycroft with their parents being none the wiser. Mycroft held out, his morality and virtue intact, for eight months of constant sexual bombardment. Until the day Sherlock joined him in the shower. One intense, glorious blow job later, and Mycroft’s principles lay in rubble at his feet, where not coincidentally, Sherlock knelt, come pulsing out his cock as he swallowed the last of Mycroft down.

And now, here Sherlock stood, just an inch or two shy of Mycroft, with taut muscles, fine hairs decorating his chest, and a sweet, thin dark line parading starkly down from his navel into a modest patch of dark curls. His cock stirred eagerly, beginning to rise as he held his head high. Mycroft looked back up, seeing the edges of pink lips flicker up in the hint of a smile. Sherlock’s eyes were dark and he tilted his head down slightly as to stare at Mycroft between his eyelashes, the wild curls cascading in a manner as haphazard as their host.

Mycroft closed his eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath, then flashed his eyes open. He watched Sherlock’s pupils dilate as they registered Mycroft’s stern intent.

“Sherlock, what is to be done with you?” Mycroft lamented, and opened a locked cupboard on his bookshelf. He poured himself a snifter of brandy, and took out what looked to be an ornate pine jewelry box. He sat the container on his desk and took a sip of the brandy before setting it atop the wooden box, and began to pace the room. “You must understand my dilemma. To allow such behavior to continue is inadvisable. Yet, as we discovered just a few short months ago, simple reprimand is far from a deterrent. Withholding my affections, handcuffs, riding crops, all manner of pain and punishment only serve to exacerbate your behavior.”

“The explosion wasn’t my fault!” Sherlock blurted out, finally breaking his silence.

“Damnit, Sherlock, I’m not talking about the explosion! You weren’t brought to me for discipline for an explosion.” Mycroft picked up the papers Dr. Wiggins had handed him and began to read, “You’re as thick as a bull’s walt. Irish. Your mother sucks bears in the forest. Bulgarian. Fuck eight generations of your ancestors. Mandarin. Insult after insult in as many foreign languages of which you could think.” Mycroft shoved the papers down to the desk and growled, “Shall I continue?”

“Only if you need more descriptions for Wiggins.”

Mycroft sighed, then took another gulp of brandy, set the glass aside, and opened the box. “I believe I have found a solution,” he commented, a hint of pride to his voice, and took out a metal circular device, and held it up for Sherlock to inspect.

Sherlock looked it over briefly, then dropped his jaw as comprehension dawned, “Is that- Do you expect that I will let you put  _ that _ on me?”

“No,” Mycroft answered curtly. “I expect you will put it on yourself. I expect that Sherlock Holmes, the great inquisitor, will want to know everything. How it feels, what it’s like. And more importantly, I will not touch you again until you are wearing it.” Mycroft set the small, specifically designed cage on the edge of the desk, then sat down at his computer. He ignored Sherlock, beginning to grade papers, and waited.

Sherlock shifted between each foot, anxious and frustrated. Mycroft knew Sherlock hated to succumb to any of his plans, but Mycroft also knew that for his little brother, not knowing was the greater sin. After Mycroft graded just two essays, Sherlock finally snapped the cage off the desk and secured it around his now flaccid cock. He closed the lock dangling beneath his bollocks, guided by only his fingers, and snarled in Mycroft’s direction, “There. Satisfied?” 

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, a petulant glare upon his face, and his cock securely withheld inside the silver apparatus. “Oh, yes, Sherlock. Quite.”

He stood, opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and pulled out a leather riding crop, “I suppose it’s fitting we begin with punishment. Over the desk, hands behind your back.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and Mycroft noticed his cock twitch unsuccessfully against its restraints. “To emphasize your lesson this morning, we shall beginning with the riding crop. Should my previous observations be correct, 37 lashes will bring you to proper tears.” Mycroft had to give Sherlock a goal, something for Sherlock to rebel against. At first, Sherlock had feigned tears just a few hard strokes in, but Mycroft knew he hadn’t learned his lesson. But now, Sherlock fought to defy Mycroft, to prove that whatever number Mycroft set, he could rise above it. Mycroft took great pleasure in the fact that Sherlock had yet to do so.

Sherlock bent over the desk as Mycroft instructed, his hands gripping either elbow to keep his arms behind his back but far from the reach of the crop. Mycroft took in the sight of Sherlock’s firm, pert arse, tight with youth, and he took a moment to lick his lips when Sherlock couldn’t see his obvious lust.

When they’d originally begun this, Mycroft genuinely set out to teach Sherlock proper behavior and manners, but found that to control Sherlock, to discipline him, was gorgeously arousing for both he and his little brother. Sherlock may have been right. Perhaps they really were made for each other.

With long, nimble fingers, Mycroft paused to caress the smooth curves of the white skin, then once Sherlock relaxed into his touch, he brought down the riding crop with a loud smack against the fleshiest part of his arse. Sherlock jolted, but kept bent.  Mycroft waited, watching the redness form over the tender flesh, and felt tension melt from his body. He struck again, and again, and let his senses take over. He let himself focus on the snap of the crop, and the whimpers Sherlock desperately tried to keep in. The ivory skin bloomed with crimson flowers, and he snapped just a bit harder on occasion to raise a welt. Sherlock’s skin burned underneath his touch as he paused and soothed the searing heat with his cool hands. He smelled the sweat and arousal pour off Sherlock, the desperation silently pleading.

Sherlock cried out, and Mycroft could hear the tremors in his voice. He could see the way Sherlock’s legs shook, and he took the strokes a bit lower, to the sensitive, tender skin just below his buttocks, and Sherlock yelped. At stroke thirty five, Mycroft could hear the hitch in Sherlock’s voice, and he could tell the boy had tears in his eyes by the way he held back, teetering on an edge he knew he must fall over. Mycroft paused, and sank to his knees, massaging him, laying soft, wet kisses on the most inflamed stripes, and Sherlock bit back a sob.

With one sudden and quick motion, Mycroft bolted up and laid two heavy strikes across the skin, and Sherlock’s dam broke, the tears streamed down his cheeks, landing with silent splashes onto the desk below. Mycroft felt relief as the boy shuddered beneath him; perhaps Sherlock might learn something today after all.

-o-

Mycroft helped Sherlock to standing, and held the boy’s jaw with one hand. He wiped the tears streaking from Sherlock’s eyes with a brush of his thumb. “Beautiful, just beautiful,” he commented, pouring as much affection as he could muster into his loving gaze.

Sherlock withered under the affections and sought to free himself. “Careful, Mycroft, someone might accuse you of  _ sentiment _ ,” he sneered weakly, but as Mycroft slid his hand around to the back of his neck and stroked through the dark curls, Sherlock whimpered and bowed his head.

Mycroft drew Sherlock in for a kiss, feeling the boy’s lips against his own, their dryness from neglect ( _ transport indeed _ ) brushing roughly against Mycroft’s soft, plump lips. Mycroft licked softly, to moisten the dry skin, then nibbled Sherlock’s bottom lip with gentle persuasion. Sherlock opened with a near silent, “Oh!” and Mycroft took the advantage to deepen the kiss, to feel the intimacy of breathing each other’s air, the occasional slip of tongue against tongue. Mycroft held Sherlock close as his brother’s legs buckled, completely absorbed in the feeling of his elder pressed against him, sharing himself with Sherlock.

It was these moments when the game, the competition, the puzzle, the score was irrelevant. There were no fights for cleverness, no attempting to outwit each other. In these perfect seconds of intimate silence, it was one soul, lonely and brilliant, seeking out a kindred spirit. For just an instant, there was love, affection, adoration and Mycroft knew he could never give this up willingly ‘til the end of his days.

As Sherlock’s tears subsided, Mycroft placed gently kisses to his damp eyes then pulled back. He let his fingers drift once more down Sherlock’s jaw then down the boy’s neck as Sherlock tilted his head to offer the vulnerable flesh, symbolic of his trust.


	2. All's Fair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Janto321](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321) for the beta!

Mycroft’s lips quirked with playful affection, “I have a class to teach, but I’m not through with you yet. I’m not fully convinced you have learned your lesson.” He turned Sherlock back over the desk, and bent over him to reach the box he’d previously fetched, rubbing Sherlock’s red, raw arse with the wool of his suit jacket and trousers. Sherlock held back a whine, and Mycroft carefully stood back up after taking out the bottle of lubricant he kept hidden in the pine box.  He drenched his fingers and slowly slid them down the crevice of Sherlock’s arse, the boy’s body twitching underneath him. He found the tight pucker, and ran a wet finger around in circles, listening to the heaving breaths echoing through his small office; the restless, frantic noises of his little brother as he succumbed to his disparaged transport.

When Sherlock was panting thoroughly, Mycroft slipped a single digit into his hot, welcoming body, and the sound of the subsequent gasp sent shivers down his spine. He felt the smoothness of Sherlock’s body, the way it clenched around his finger, and easily slid a second finger in. He bent over and licked a thin, delicate stripe up Sherlock’s spine, tasting the salt of exertion off his skin, and felt the boy’s muscles twitch under his tongue. Mycroft pried a third finger into Sherlock’s body and felt him push back against him, anxious to be further filled.

Mycroft loved his brother’s desperation, his eagerness. He craved Sherlock’s twitches, his descent into the physical. Sherlock despised it of himself, but Mycroft knew that to tease it out of him was to pleasure Sherlock, to treat and adore him. As his baby brother bucked underneath him, he focused on the feel of Sherlock’s tight arse on the three fingers he pumped in and out of the boy’s sensitive hole. Sherlock whimpered and shuddered beneath him, and Mycroft knew it was time. He opened the pine box one last time, and pulled out a plug.

It was wide and it was lovely, and to demonstrate, Mycroft held it in Sherlock’s view, then turned on its vibration setting. Sherlock moaned and clenched around Mycroft’s fingers still buried inside him. Mycroft smirked and withdrew, circling the loosened pucker with his ring finger one last time, before removing his hand and pressing the plug against Sherlock’s tight little hole. He watched Sherlock’s arse open easily at first, accepting the toy, and then resistance set in. Sherlock whimpered as Mycroft slowed his push, letting Sherlock adjust without due harm. Sherlock huffed heavily and Mycroft could see the sweat bead at his temples. With a final push, the plug seated between the flogged cherry-red cheeks.

Mycroft titled his head in admiration of the view, and he gently caressed the bruised flesh. “Now, I’ve a class to which I must attend. I’ll be leaving you here.” Mycroft reached into box and found a set of leather cuffs. He tapped his palm on Sherlock’s spine, “Hands behind your back, Sherlock.”

Sherlock snorted, “You are certainly delusional, Mycroft, if you think I’m-“ and cut himself off with a high pitched whine as Mycroft activated the vibrator. Mycroft let him buckle and quiver against the desk, legs weak, until finally, Sherlock laid his chest on the desk and offered his hands up behind his back.

“Yes, there we go.” Mycroft encouraged, and placed the soft, well-worn cuffs on Sherlock’s wrists. He helped Sherlock to standing, and pulled the spare cushion off his office chair, tossing it on the floor. “Kneel.” He commanded and Sherlock fell to his knees.

Mycroft ran his fingers through Sherlock’s wild curls, then tightened his fist, and pulled Sherlock’s head back. He bent down to capture his brother’s lips, biting until Sherlock moaned, unfocused and bleary with sensation. Mycroft pressed a small black box into his restrained hands. He whispered into Sherlock’s ear, “If you need anything; if it’s too much, you just press that button. It’ll page me, and I’ll be here to take care of you. After all, it’s my job to take such good care of you, isn’t it, ‘Lock?” Mycroft chose his words carefully. He knew Sherlock hated his childhood nickname, and it ensured that Sherlock would have to swallow his pride to press that button. He’d only press it if it were absolutely necessary. It was how Mycroft preferred it.

“I’m locking the door, and you’ll stay quiet,” Mycroft ordered sternly, then smirked. “However difficult you may find that.”

As the door shut behind him, the steady hum of vibration filled the room, only to be overcome with stifled whimpers.

-o-

Mycroft returned an hour later, and heard muffled sobbing as he opened the door. Sherlock gasped as the toy turned off, and the boy looked up, tears streaked down his cheeks, a whine escaping his throat. His brow and neck glistened with sweat and his cock, trapped in its cage, leaked profusely over the cushion beneath his knees. Sherlock’s hips thrust fruitlessly in the air, with no friction available to relieve him. He squirmed and wiggled, looking very much like the petulant child Mycroft knew he could be.

Mycroft hung his suit jacket on the hook, and walked around Sherlock to his chair, letting his fingers drag across the strong shoulders as he did. Sherlock moaned, leaning into the touch, skin aching for the feel of Mycroft pressed hot against his flesh. “Just gorgeous, Sherlock. You are gorgeous like this, needy, physical, frantic and _obedient_.”

Mycroft watched Sherlock closely as he spoke, and when Sherlock’s eyes didn’t flash with defiance, he knew the lesson had been well received.

“Would you like me to help? I could replace that toy; release your cage and let you come, riding my cock like the wanton little tart you are?”

Sherlock nodded, too afraid to try his voice in fear that it might crack or squeak.

“Good.” Mycroft stated and opened the drawer to his right. With a dramatic flair, he smacked down two pencils and several sheets of paper in front of Sherlock. “I believe the punishment was 200 lines of ‘I shall follow proper laboratory protocols.’”

Mycroft watched the dawning incredulity on Sherlock’s face and prized it, savoring the moment he could still surprise his little brother. Once the memory was properly categorized, he smiled fondly and leaned down to remove Sherlock’s cuffs. He turned his back and began his grading.

A sharp intake of air forewarned Mycroft of the verbal explosion about to burst from Sherlock’s smart mouth. “You are despicable, you damned proper pompous prat! Sneering sniveling suck up! There is not a chance in hell, _Mykie_ , that I will-“

“Yes, you will,” Mycroft cut him off, without looking, “Because I still have your cock in my cage.” The pause of Sherlock’s rant, the silence of his spinning brain, pleased Mycroft. “And before you suggest it, do realize how much more difficult it will be to pick the lock when the lock hangs just below your bollocks.”

“ _You fiend_ ,” Sherlock attempted a snarl, but Mycroft could hear the admiration in his voice.

“I am _terribly_ clever, yes.” Mycroft smiled, “Be a good boy, now. Write your lines.”

It took several minutes of thick, hushed tension, but as Mycroft expected, the scratch of the lead across the paper soon accompanied the tapping of his own fingers on the keyboard.

-o-

With a final jab at the paper, Sherlock slammed his pencil on the desk and shoved the papers at Mycroft. After ensuring their accuracy, Mycroft turned slowly in his chair to examine the boy kneeling beside him. Sherlock glared at him.

Mycroft stood, unbuttoning his shirt, and draping it on the hook along with his jacket. He sat back down, and patted his lap, “I suppose it’s now time for positive reinforcement.”

Sherlock scowled, but still stood awkwardly and straddled Mycroft. Mycroft took his cheek in hand, and stroked his jaw line. He pulled the boy in by the neck, and laid kisses up the pale expanse of neck. The tension left Sherlock’s body and he slumped against Mycroft, whose fingers danced along Sherlock’s flank and stroked the warm skin, feeling the muscles twitch beneath them. The taste of Sherlock’s neck, the way his body curved and jutted underneath him, and how his chest heaved against Mycroft’s with each tantalizing touch – Mycroft had long since relieved himself of any guilt associated with their coupling. Now, he soaked up each of Sherlock’s whimpers, delicious, pouring fire into veins, raising his heart rate, his blood pressure, his cock, and his hands acted of their own accord, like marionette puppets driven by primal, animalistic instinct. Mycroft slipped a finger around the plug, feeling the junction where the silicone disappeared into the hot, breath-taking body currently grinding up against him, and he bucked twice against Sherlock, before he could claim control of himself once more. He wiggled and rotated the plug, achingly slow, and Sherlock panted, leaning into him, chest to chest, a nest of curls buried in his neck while mouthing at his clavicle, leaving wet streaks as Sherlock licked from collarbone to the crest behind Mycroft’s ear. The more Mycroft twisted, shifted, and tugged, the more aggressive Sherlock became, nipping and biting, threading fingers through ginger hair, tugging and gasping and writhing for anything, friction, movement, his body was taut and fit to burst, ready to snap and come and, “Jesus fuck, Mycroft, get this damned cage off me!”

“Plug or cage first?” Mycroft panted, talking into the raven curls, pressing kisses to them, inhaling the scent of Sherlock’s shampoo, a heady cardamom blend that he’d let Mycroft pick out. The scent made Mycroft giddy, shiver, and his cock twitched almost painfully against his snug trousers.

“Cage, then plug, damnit. _Now_!” Sherlock gasped, and Mycroft pushed his chest back, until Sherlock’s upper body rested against the desk, spread out before Mycroft like a banquet of temptation and sin, and Mycroft wanted to mark every inch of alabaster skin, to mar and defile Sherlock, to make him so perfectly Mycroft’s that no one might ever be enticed to take Sherlock from him. He couldn’t resist, running his wide, splayed hands over Sherlock’s chest and abdomen, feeling the fine hairs on taut skin, spread tight like a drum, and Mycroft wanted to pound into him, to find a rhythm, a beat that would merge them together in unbridled ecstasy, never to be torn apart. His fingers played over the boy’s body, brushing up against his nipples, and listening the echoes of Sherlock’s breathy moans off the walls of his office, acting in surround sound and filling Mycroft with undeniable need.

Sherlock whined, and Mycroft was reminded of his goals; he slid his fingers down the junctures of groin and thigh until they met together where the cage was locked, just below Sherlock’s bollocks. He placed teasing touches on the loose skin, and reached for his keys.

When the cage was unlocked, Sherlock groaned in appreciation, and almost immediately his cock began to fill out, as he lay prostrate before Mycroft, raw and exposed, ready and near begging. Mycroft’s fingers slid down to the plug, the path slippery from the earlier lubricant and Sherlock’s leaking, angry cock as it lay trapped. He let his fingers slide around the rim of the plug, teasing the red flesh, before beginning to tug gently at the toy. As Mycroft pulled, he twisted and turned, aiming to leave Sherlock sobbing and pleading before it’s removal. He slapped the boy’s hands away as Sherlock attempted to pleasure himself, refusing to let him be responsible for his own orgasm. That joy belonged to Mycroft and Mycroft alone, and he would wring every last drop of bliss from Sherlock’s body, leaving him boneless and strung out, desperate for just another touch, another kiss, another stroke, and he’d come back to Mycroft. Mycroft, who would be inside him, written into his DNA, poured ounce by ounce into everything that Sherlock was and they’d ride the high of orgasm, endorphins, oxytocin and love until death do they part.

Mycroft finally removed the wide silicone plug, and Sherlock groaned wantonly like the blokes from the adult films Mycroft used to watch. He hadn’t found much of a need for them recently. The sound echoed in his ears, bouncing down his spine and traveled like a pinball through his nerves, lighting each one, pinging pleasure from his fingertips to his toes, and everywhere in between. His cock was pressing painfully hard against his zipper, and as Sherlock arched back, scrambling for purchase, he took the opportunity to spring his cock free from its confines, moaning with relief.

Mycroft shifted himself, placing his cock at Sherlock’s entrance, and Sherlock’s eyes bolted open, and a soft, “ _Oh, fuck, finally, God, yes_ ,” slipped out. Sherlock pushed himself up with his arms, and as he did so, his weight shifted and Mycroft felt the slick glide of his cock, opening Sherlock up, sliding into the tightest, hottest heat he’d ever known. He’d been with other men, but none as gorgeously perfect as Sherlock, none that gripped and held him just as tight, whose body and perfect angles rubbed Mycroft in all the right ways, and Sherlock whined gloriously as he sank down on Mycroft’s thick cock, filling him inch by inch, opening him so much further than the plug dared reach.

It was _damn well bloody brilliant_ as Sherlock’s warmth soaked into him. The younger boy sat up further and Mycroft gasped as the tight grip sunk down even further on his cock. “Jesus, Sherlock, you gorgeous thing,” he gasped, running his arms up Sherlock’s back, pressing the boy even further into his chest.

Sherlock huffed into his neck, forcing himself down, anxious to be filled, wide and thick, with Mycroft’s cock. Sherlock’s long legs reached the ground, and realizing his position, he wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s neck, beginning a steady rise and fall. The young man used his leverage, thrusting, fucking himself, frantically grinding down, taking every millimeter possible, letting Mycroft infiltrate him, consume him, and invade not just his body but every conscious thought of his body. Each cell cried out for Mycroft, clamoring for him, and Sherlock bounced, faster and harder, impaling himself on his big brother’s splendid arousal.

“Damn it, Mycroft,” Sherlock panted, “Why you? Always you.” He slammed himself down hard, spurred by the bliss of impending orgasm, “No one but you. Perfect. Fill me so _fucking_ good.”

As much as Mycroft enjoyed the words as they tumbled from Sherlock’s lips, unfocused and affectionate without any of their sharp wit and decisive burn; his mouth was too sweet, too delicious to ignore, and as Sherlock trembled, hips gyrating in Mycroft’s lap, Mycroft held tight onto his waist with one hand, and slid two fingers past Sherlock’s pink, gorgeous lips. Sherlock groaned as he immediately began to suck, laving thick attention with his tongue, wet and obscene, sloppy and eager. As he desperately bobbed on his brother’s long digits, Sherlock’s hand found its way to his cock and he displayed his impressive skills as for a moment, all three movements, the bouncing on Mycroft’s cock, the hand flying over his own arousal, and sucking down Mycroft’s fingers were executed in a near perfect rhythm.

It took just moments and Sherlock began to falter, the suction on Mycroft’s fingers loosening as Sherlock’s breath grew ragged, his hand rushing over himself, tipping him to the edge, and Mycroft thought this was the most spiritual thing he’d ever witnessed, ever felt, ever heard. He wanted to live in this moment, over and over, as Sherlock stuttered, and began to come, his arse twitching around Mycroft’s cock, the deep frantic moan that echoed through the room as thick, beautiful ropes of come burst over Sherlock’s fist and onto Mycroft’s chest.

Mycroft gasped, sliding his fingers from Sherlock’s mouth and gripping the boy’s hips with frenzied energy. Sherlock, near spent with exhaustion, slumped onto Mycroft’s shoulder, leaving room between them for Sherlock to trail his fingers through the evidence of his pleasure, and then, as Mycroft huffed, panting with exertion, Sherlock shoved the come-laden digits past Mycroft’s lips.

The taste of Sherlock’s seed, coupled with how Sherlock began to rub it into Mycroft’s pale, soft belly was the last of the cascading pleasures, and Mycroft fell into ecstasy, sliding his arms up Sherlock’s back, pressing his little brother down onto his pulsating cock, and nearly screamed into Sherlock’s shoulder, as the thrusting slide was made slicker by Mycroft spilling into his tight arse. He rode out his orgasm, and with a soft, “ _Oh, Sherlock_ ,” dropped his head back onto the office chair, letting his fingers slide down Sherlock’s back, down his flank, and settling onto his thighs.

Sherlock stayed draped over him, and together they laid until the sound of heavy breathing no longer echoed off the walls. Sherlock then gingerly sat up, sliding off Mycroft’s lap and looked down. “Well, it seems we’ve made quite a mess.”

Mycroft smirked, “Quite.” He nodded his head toward the basin in the corner; a remnant of much older days, “Flannels in the same place as always. Be a love, won’t you?”

“Oh bugger off,” Sherlock dismissed, but still tossed a flannel to Mycroft.

“Indeed I have,” Mycroft chuckled. The post-coital routine was familiar, and they fell quickly and easily into their playful mockery. He looked down at his watch.

“Oh dear, it looks like you have missed most of the school day. I suppose I shall need to excuse you for the day, and you can report to Dr. Wiggin’s class again first thing in the morning.” Mycroft’s smile lit up, “I will be sure to deliver your lines for you.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he pulled up his trousers, “That was low, even for you.”

“I do hope you’ve learned your lesson, brother mine.”

“I shall strive to forget it as promptly as I can.” Sherlock buttoned up his dress shirt, with a devious glint in his eyes, said, “And I’ll be sure to tell Mummy you’ll be home late.”

Mycroft’s brow raised in alarm, and he demanded, “What did you do?”

Sherlock affected mock indignation, “I have no idea what you are talking about. But it is such a shame that you haven’t graded a thing in the last week.” And with his cocky, characteristic wink, he strode out the door.

Mycroft swiveled to his computer; the last five days of grading, all deleted.

It looked like Sherlock would need another lesson.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://phipiohsum475.tumblr.com/).


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